Tom Riddle and the Hard Times
by poultanzas
Summary: A little experiment with a non-psychopathic Riddle.
1. Chapter 1: Hard Times

"You've got to be practical about these things" said Belatrix, as she brought the claw-hammer down. Practical, yes, my watchword, thought Tom.

Bella, beautiful Bella, Lucius and Tom stood with their backs to the milky light of a dirty window, in a rough half-circle around a man tied to a chair. The room smelt of damp. Lucius looked bored.

There was another crunch, and the man in the chair slumped down. Bella had a fleck of blood by her nose. Tom wondered, again, how it had come to this... brutality. Sometimes he thought more than loyalty, what held his cause together was sheer guilt over the things they had been forced to do. Shared suffering of the worst kind. Lost friends, lost principles, lost minds.

They had done what they had to. Tom extended one white, long-fingered hand and flicked a clot of bone and hair from his robe. A smear of blood adhered to his palm. He supressed a slight shudder at the sight of his hands - he used to think he would get used too how he looked. He wiped his bloody hand on his robe, but the blood didn't seem to come off.

"Boss?" said Bella, looking at him with worry in her time-ravaged eyes.  
"You're right. There's no point in half measures, you did good." Tom placed his hand on her shoulder. She smiled, and he felt his heart twist as his eyes conjured the smile he remembered, before Azkaban. The little that was left of his war-ravaged heart.  
"Whose next?" Lucius asked, in that bored drawl he'd affected, ever since Regulus. Nearly twenty years ago, now, but Tom still had to supress a shudder of rage.  
"Bones."

* * *

The orphans were scared. Above them, the drone of giant engines could be heard, and in the distance, the thunder of falling bombs. Mrs Cole promised them they would be safe, but Tom had long ago stopped believing her promises. They were solid as stone until she'd got her fingers on the gin, then they were solid as smoke. Amy had called her Mrs Switch, both in honour of the switch she used, and the speed at which she went from mummy to monster, and the name stuck.

Amy and Dennis, his two closest friends, sat with Tom shivvering under the heavy oak table he had dragged them under. Looking at the graffiti-scarred wood, he frankly doubted it would help them if a bomb hit, but it wouldn't do to tell the others that. They were scared enough already. He was scared too, but it did him good not too let on. He felt like an ant under a glass, like each German bomber was a sadistic child peering down at him from the air, deciding whether to burn him first or last.

Somehow, keeping his lip from quivering made Tom feel a little less helpless. It made him feel like he was not giving the germans their satisfaction. When he was getting a checkup by the nurse, Martha, he had heard Bernard say - Bernard, Martha's air-defence corp beau - that the Germans were targeting cities for 'psychological reasons'. He'd asked Martha what that meant, and she had said it meant the Germans wanted to scare us.

Tom would not be scared.

* * *

"Quiet, quiet, everybody quiet. Mrs Switch is back" Dennis whispered frantically. Nobody wanted to be caught talking after lights-out by Mrs Cole. Anything might happen.

Tom heard a bang and a muttered swearword from the corridor outside the dormitory. The orphans flinched and huddled deeper into their dirty blankets. Mrs Cole was drunk.

There was the flick of a light-switch, and the door to the corridor was framed with golden electric light. Tom shut his eyes tightly.

"Children! Children! Mommy's home!" came the voice from behind the door, slurred by gin and self-loathing. This was always how it started. The orphans hunched down into their beds, not wanting to be singled out.

"Children, why don't you answer?" Tom could hear the edge of anger growing on her voice, and he clenched his eyes shut, hoping against hope that she wouldn't come in. Maybe she was going to go into the dormitory across the corridor.

"Let's see what's got your little tongues" came her voice through the door. Tom heard the rattle as she put her hand on the door-knob.

Something clicked within his mind, and Tom opened his eyes in surprise.

There was a rattle as the doorknob stuck, and Mrs Cole cursed. There was another rattle, then a bang. Then another bang, as the door was wrenched back and forewards. Then a moment of silence.

"Children, open the door."

Nobody moved.

"Children, open the door or mommy will get cross."

Mrs Cole was already cross. Tom could hear it in the ugly menace of her heavy breath, beleing her sweet tone.

"Open the door!" she screamed, and the orphans flinched. The door rattled, shaking back and forth as she threw herself at it. Amy began to cry, holding her pillow over her mouth.

Tom closed his eyes tightly, and tried not to think about the morning coming.


	2. Chapter 2: Good Luck

Tom no longer slept. The last night he had spent in bed was fourteen years ago - the night before Godric's hollow. His new body gave him sleepless energy, his dead heart thumping away like a dynamo in his chest. An endless plain of time stretched out in every direction, without punctuation or pause.

More time for the war.

Blood of the enemy, bone of the father, flesh of the servant - and more servile flesh than Wormtail would be hard to find, he thought. Three parts to a bitterly painful way of eking out one's existence, Tom mentally reprimanded himself for self-pity.

His blood-red eyes could see no colour. Tom's world was endless shades of grey, and he had almost forgotten what colour looked like. Sometimes he thought he would endure everything all over just to see a single yellow bloom.

He looked over again at the perimeter-sensor. It was a treasure, a disc of tarnished Incan bronze that plotted all who set foot within three hundred yards in every direction. He had found it in a scorched pile of shaped stones, amongst the root-covered bones and rust-withered armor of a group of Spanish soldiers, so encumbered by the stolen gold they had piled into their satchels they had not managed to escape the fire they had started.

Nothing. He could see only the markers of his friends, sleeping downstairs, and a fox, nosing its way around the copse that bordered their safe-house.

Tom drew his wand. Something was wrong, he could feel it. A raid?

Perhaps he was just imagining things, but Tom had learned long ago to trust his instincts. The mind picks up a lot that we aren't immediately aware of, small clues to vague for the conscious mind.

Tom's mind, macerated by half a century of war, was achingly sensitive.

In the darkness, he heard a high, whistling sound. Tom threw himself to the floor as something hit the wards. There was a lightning-bright flash and a sound like splitting stone as they exploded under impact.

"RAID!" Tom bellowed, his magically amplified voice shaking the broken fragments of glass that littered the room.

He heard a shout, out in the darkness, and somebody shot a stunner through the window. They were trying to take him alive.

'Good luck', he muttered to himself, and jumped out into the night.

* * *

He landed badly. A sharp spike of pain shot up one ankle, and he keeled over to one side, narrowly avoiding another stunner. He shot two spells back, the action so reflexive he hadn't consciously chosen what to cast. A cutting hex and a bone-eater. They deserved worse.

He heard a scream as one of his spells hit home. He bit back a grunt of pain as he lurched up onto his ankle. The aurors had to be distracted from the house until his friends were on their feet.

A brace of angry red spells shot out from the darkness, and one set fire to the building's roof. They were trying to distract him. He transfigured a stone into a simple doppleganger, and set it running off to the left as he ran right. It got three paces before it was hit in the chest with a spell that made it shake itself to pieces.

However often he did this, Tom thought, he never got used to it. He heard Bella's voice from the house as she cast curses from the smashed windows, and saw the flash as one passed through an auror's chest.

He turned the corner of the hedge he had been using as cover to find himself face-to-face with an auror. Acting without thinking, he shot off a blasting curse. Judging by the volume of spells flying from the woods, there were at least twenty aurors out there. We need to go, he thought.

The house was truly on fire now, lighting up the night in a pillar of flame. Where were the others?

As if on cue, he heard a scream from the house.

"Bella, we good to go?" Tom shouted.

He heard Lucius's voice shout back "Bella's down, I got her stabilized, we're good to go!"

He took the brittle piece of ivory he had keyed the anti-apparation ward too, and snapped it in one hand.

Another brilliant victory, he thought to himself bitterly.

* * *

"Tom, you're covered in blood."

"How's Bella doing?"

"She's fine, she was just winged. They put a colloportus on the door, so we couldn't get out. We got most of the supplies before the smoke got too thick to breathe." Lucius was covered in soot and burn-marks.

"Where is she?"

"Are you wounded?"

Tom looked at his hands. They were covered in a thick layer of blood. He had a piece of bone sticking out of his shoulder.

"Not badly. Most of this isn't mine. I hit someone with a blaster up close."

Lucius winced.

"Well, I'm going to set up some security. I left a surprise waiting for our friends back at the house, so I don't expect we've been followed."

"What was the surprise?"

"_Fiendfyre_."

* * *

"I'm sorry, Tom. One second I was dancing, the next, I missed a step and got hit." Bellatrix's voice sounded hoarse.

"Probably smoke inhalation. Happens to the best of us."

"Should've used a bubble-head charm."

"Should've laced the perimeter with claymores."

"How did they break the wards so fast?"

"I think it was a muggle missile, by the sound of it. Launched by a drone, I think."

"Why didn't they take another pass?"

"Probably worried about hitting their own. I don't think they knew who we were until I started firing on them."

"So we were nearly caught by a routine raid?"

"Yeah, I think so. The drone must have spotted our wards, and the ministry sent a squad to investigate."

"Shitty luck."

"Well, I guess it's lucky it was us and not some poor sods who wouldn't have made it out."

Bellatrix went quiet, probably remembering Azkaban. Her eyes got this glazed-over look, sometimes. She always fought with little quarter, but when the ministry used stunners, she fought with a viciousness that was frightening.

She poked squeamishly at the bloody mess the spell had left of her side and said, "Lucky us."


	3. Chapter 3: The House on Sea

"What are you going to do, huh?" The big boy thumped Tom again in the stomach. "You gonna cry?"

Tom gritted his teeth. Better he got a beating than Dennis, or Amy. He could take a beating and wake up the next morning whistling. One time the older boys beat him so bad that he coughed up blood, but the next morning, he woke up without a bruise. He sat there in morning mess, smiling a shit-eating grin, and staring at the boys who beat him. They had looked away, scared.

If Dennis got a beating like that, he'd be in the infirmary for a week. He got beat bad once, but nobody beat him ever again, not after what they saw what Tom had done to those who did it.

Tom grunted as the boy's fist hit his diaphragm. For a second, he couldn't breathe. This boy, Billy Stubbs, didn't know what he was letting himself in for. For all his brawn, he was a new kid, trying to earn his place in the pecking order.

The truth is, if it was just his suffering on the line, Tom would have turned the other cheek. He hated violence, it made him feel more nauseous to inflict it than it hurt him to be its object. Given the choice between being hurt and hurting others, he would have chosen being hurt any time.

But it wasn't that simple. If he let Billy Stubbs get away with this, Dennis would be next. And Amy. And their broken bones didn't heal in a night. So Billy Stubbs had to become a lesson. A lesson about why people didn't mess with skinny, scrawny, funny-looking Tom.

Two days later, they found Billy Stubb's pet rabbit hanging from the rafters.

* * *

To an orphan, possessions are worth more than teeth. You are shunted from home to home. Your clothes are hand-me-downs, and are to be handed down after you're done with them. Your parent-surrogates are alcoholics and hateful sadists who will abandon you without warning. Those you love only look at you with mild affection, one of many. Friendships are snapped and broken as you are cast into new institutions with new rules and faces.

Every orphan has a few things they consider their own. A pencil. Their father's half-filled notebook. Their mother's earing, singular.

Even the worst bullies would leave these alone, on the most part. It wasn't worth it. The depths of fury that could be plumbed by depriving children of their one constant were not worth any satisfaction that might be granted by cruelty.

Tom had learned early on that simply hurting a bully wasn't enough to protect his friends. Their defeats would rankle - how could they have been so hurt by somebody so small? So pathetic? Sooner or later, they would forget what had happened last time they had troubled Tom or Tom's friends.

They would forget why it was best to leave Tom alone. Dennis still had the burns to prove it from the time when one of the older boys 'accidentally' spilled beef stew all over Dennis' hands. The fatty broth stuck.

That was the wake-up call. Violence wasn't enough. He had to find a way to own those who would hurt his friends. That was when he started taking hostages. No orphan would risk the few trinklets they possessed. Not for revenge, not for honour, not for anything.

A mouth-harp, a match-box, small things, but powerful.

* * *

"Look at that!" Amy nudged Tom on the arm, pointing at the great granite cliffs that sprang into view as the coach rounded a bend. Gigantic waves crashed at the foot of the brutal rock faces, and Tom wondered again why Mrs Cole thought this was an ideal holiday location for young children.  
"Don't you think it's beautiful?" Amy asked.  
Tom shivvered, and replied "give me a London street any day of the week. Those rocks.. they look like they could dash you into dust as quick as blinking."  
Amy laughed, "Scaredy-cat, scared of stones," and the coach swerved dangerously close to the cliff-edge that ran alongside the narrow road.  
Dennis looked queasy.  
"It just looks so... wild, and free." Amy sighed, as seaguls raced past in the void.  
Tom agreed, they did look wild, and free. But also uncaring, and cold, and to Tom it seemed as if it were a coast made for lunatic giants, not for children.

* * *

Somehow, against every protestation Dennis and Tom had managed to dream up between them, Amy had managed to tease them into sneaking out.

They trudged behind their sharp-tongued leader, walking over the close-cropped turf that topped the blasted crags. Tom could hear the waves crashing below, and he glumly wiped the light drizzle off his forehead.

"Come on, let's stand at the top!" Amy darted forwards, towards where the rabbit-mown turf turned into open air.

"Amy!"

"Come on, or are you too scared?" She taunted.

Dennis buckled under the fear of being called fearful, and trudged forward. Tom sighed, and joined the two, hunching against the wind.

Tom felt a strange, prickling feeling. Was that thunder, out over the sea?

Amy whistled as they crested the hill, and stood at the edge of the cliff, their clothes fluttering in the powerful sea breeze. She leaned into the wind for a second, and Tom grabbed her, pulling her back, "be careful!"

A seagul hung in the air, regarding the three orphans with stony black eye.

Amy waved at it wistfully, and it dived down towards the breakers.

There was another flash out to see, outlining the clouds in golden light.

Tom jumped, "What was that?"  
"What?" said Amy.  
"That bright flash, over there," he said, pointing at the bruised sky.  
"I didn't see anything."  
"Look, there, again!" He pointed at the brief flash, like a burst of golden fire.  
"Nothing, you loon. There's nothing there!"  
"You didn't see it?"  
Dennis said that he hadn't seen the flash either.

There was another flash, and a boom, like the sound of a bomb. Tom jumped.  
"Are you OK?" Dennis asked, leaning closer.  
"You hear that?"  
"No, nothing. Tom, if this is a joke, it ain't funny" said Amy.  
"Let's go, Mrs Cole will catch us" said Dennis.  
Amy and Dennis started back to the guesthouse, and Tom reluctantly followed in their wake.


	4. Chapter 4: Lab Rat

"Is he OK?" Came Bella's voice, muffled by the floorboards, coming through from the musty, underused kitchen that formed the hub of their safe-house.

"I don't know. It has been very hard to read him lately." Lucius replied.

"That ritual took a lot out of him."

"Sure, that and the war," Lucius grunted.

"That and the war, right you are. You know he doesn't sleep?"

"Do any of us? I haven't got an hour without being woken up by a nightmare."

"Me neither, but he doesn't sleep at all. He pretends to doze sometimes. But he's never asleep."

"Lucky Tom, always comes out on top."

Bella sighed. "Can you remember when saying that wasn't a joke?"

"Sure."

"At what point exactly did we lose this war?"

Lucius hunched. "We haven't lost this war. Not while I'm fucking standing. Not after what we've paid for it."

"I think we lost it after Regulus."

Lucius hissed at the name. "We haven't lost the fucking war."

"Look at us. Look at yourself. Look at me."

"I'm not saying sticking at it hasn't cost us."

"Tom's dead, Luce. Only the dead don't sleep. I wish I was dead. McNair's a monster. Mulciber too, now I think of it. You saw what they did to those muggles, don't tell me it didn't shock you. Shit, we're all monsters, living on past the grave like some dammed host of Inferi, walking the earth on our dead master's mission. Looking in the mirror and wondering how our flesh got so pallid."

"The war's been hard on them."

"The war's been hard on me, too, you don't see me torturing civvies. That was a family they hit. There were kids there, for god's sake!"

Lucius sat down on the stool. "Rosier's murder was hard for them."

"Bullshit. What they did was pure sadism."

Tom remembered the look on Mulciber's face when they found him, dripping in blood, his eyes lit up with ecstatic excitement, burning with a torturer's glee. He hadn't had the heart to condemn him at the time. He paused, with one hand on the latch of the door.

"Better than the rest of us, eh, Bella? After the Longbottoms?"

Tom opened the door, and said, "They were aurors, Lucius. They had it coming."

"That and more," Bella shivvered.

Lucius frowned. He had never been able to see eye to eye with Bella on this. He had argued at the time that a torturer is a torturer, no matter their justification. Tom probably would've agreed with him, but he'd been dead at the time. Bella, distraught and desperate, had done the worst of it, but Tom couldn't bring himself to condemn her.

She had done it for him. And she had paid for it in full. For him.

Torture in my name, thought Tom, glumly. All too much of that, these days.

Tom sat down and poured himself a drink from the bottle of firewhiskey that sat, slightly sticky to the touch, in the center of the table. Bella and Lucius had already had more than a few slugs from it. It didn't really work for Tom, anymore. His white, reptilian body functioned on a different chemistry.

Bella and Lucius were staring at him in horror.

"Tom, your shoulder." Lucius whispered.

"Oh?" Tom felt his shoulder to feel the piece of auror's bone, still lodged there, just under the clavicle. He had forgotten it was there. "Just a flesh wound," he joked lamely, then wrenched it out. Bella and Lucius continued to stare, with worried eyes.

"Look, Bella, you're right. Only the dead don't sleep. And, if we began this war for honour, we certainly lost it on that count. Justice too. But what we started for justice, we'll end for revenge. None of our dreams about what society could be would welcome us. We have become executioners, torturers and lictors, for the rules written in the falling of dead men. We've been fighting out of bitterness, out of spite." Tom drained his glass.

"And our blows have become spiteful. We have sharp faces, and we look at other men as if they were made of meat. We carry everything we have in our hearts, and our hearts are so full of them they beat to the tune of the war, and no matter whether we lost or won,"

He paused. "I don't think-" he gestured to Lucius and Bella "-there's a drop of blood in you that would let you sit the rest out. So, all this talk of winning, and losing, it doesn't matter. We're fighting the war anyway, and I'll be damned if the Ministry doesn't lose along with us."

He threw the shard of bloody bone on the table, then walked out the door and back up the stairs.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next day was filled with boring activities by half-hearted hospice staff, who became more and more sympathetic as the evening wore on, as Mrs Cole got more and more drunk. Tom looked at the adult's sympathetic, worried eyes and wondered why they didn't do something, do something about Mrs Cole, do something about a society that entrusted kids to institutions that bred cruelty.

Mrs' Cole hadn't always been so terrible. Some of the older orphans remembered her as a young woman, full of energy and enthusiasm. The stress of caring for two hundred abused, malnourished and angry children on a shoestring budget had robbed her first of her passion, then her sympathy, then finally her sobriety.

Tom didn't blame her. Most of the children were survivors of abuse in one form or another, and like all survivors, they never lost the insecurity, the mentality that held that all advantages, however selfish or small, should be grasped with wiry fingers. Most of the kids came in mean, and those that didn't would soon learn to be. The orphans, having few examples of adults who knew the difference between right and wrong, and having few opportunities to make choices beyond the considerations of bare survival, were a trial-by-fire that tended to jade by proximity.

One of the demands that caring for two hundred children places on an adult is that they cannot care.

The next night, Tom snuck out on his own. He plumped his pillows and laid them under his blanket, carefully opened the creaky lead-pane window, and stepped out into the moonlit night. The storm clouds had blown over, and the sky was bright with stars. A cold breeze blew along the coastline, bringing the smell of salt, and the muffled crashes of waves.

He was used to being weird. The other children called him Tom the Luck, but he had known for some years now, it wasn't just a kind smile from the gods of chance that protected him from the worst humiliations of orphan life. It was... It was a knack. Something in his mind could reach out, and convince boring, obstinate matter to play to his tune. Strange things happened around Tom, and he had just enough of a grasp on them to make them happen when he wanted to.

However, he knew the flashes, those golden lightning bolts out to sea, weren't his doing. That meant, he thought, it was somebody else's. Maybe, just maybe, somebody like him.

He heard the creak of the window behind him, and nearly jumped out of his skin/

"Tom!" Dennis hissed, Amy peering out from behind him, "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Go back to bed."

"Well, if you're going nowhere, we're going nowhere too," Amy said, obstinately.

Tom groaned. He knew better than to try and convince his friends to stay put. "Fine. So long as you keep quiet and follow my lead."

"Deal." Amy and Tom shook on it.

The three walked out into the moonlit night, keenly feeling the holiday lodging's many windows gaping emptilly at their small backs.

"So, Tom, where are we going?" Dennis asked.

"We're going to investigate."

"We're going to investigate what?" asked Amy.

"We're going to investigate what I saw last night. That's why I didn't want you coming along - you didn't see nothing so you won't be able to see what we're looking for," said Tom.

Amy and Dennis knew better than most that Tom was different, and they accepted it. Loved him for it, even. He was their guardian angel, but not a guardian angel who would eventually go cold and take up the bottle.

"We can still look out for you. Protect you from Germans and goblins and ghouls," said Amy.

"There's no such thing as goblins and the Germans are over the sea," said Tom, but he did feel better having Amy and Dennis backing him up.

"What if it is the Germans?" said Dennis, sounding worried.

Tom and Amy didn't reply.

They made their way acrooss the rabbit-cropped grass that crowned the cliffs, then came to a point on the clifftop that might have been a valley, before the sea took a bite from it. A small gully led down, wet with the gushes from a stream that flowed, freshwater into salt.

"I'm going to see where that gully goes. You two can stay here, if you're scared," said Amy.

"We're not scared," said Dennis.

Tom nodded, doubtfully. He would not be scared.

The three had always enjoyed climbing. First on trees, then on London roofs. Then the bombers had came, and there weren't many roofs left, or at least, not enough to climb from one to the other. The bombing had uncovered otherr treasures, left in the ruins of shattered homes, but they still missed the freedom of running across close-packed roofs.

All the same, the slick slabs of treacherous granite made for a difficult climb. The rain had covered all the rocks with a thin sheen of water, and since they were climbing down a gully carved by a stream, drips and torrents fell on them as they climbed.

Tom could feel that strange, prickling feeling growing in strength as they made their way down the rocks.

Amy jumped. "What's that?" she whispered, pointing at a flicker of grey, moving at the base of the cliff.

"I think it's just a rag, caught in the wind", said Tom, but peered closer all the same.

The stone felt rough on his fingers, and he was beginning to feel the cold.

"I think we should go back", said Dennis.

"You can go back, if you're scared," replied Amy, knowing Dennis wouldn't want to go back on his own. The three were in full adventure-mode now, relying on Dennis to provide the provocation of good sense to goad them further into dangerous exploits. It was a part that Dennis, older in his eyes than his face, accepted with weary recognition.

There was another flicker, and the flap of grey fabric disapeared from view.

Before long, the climb became challenging enough to push Tom's rising jitters to the back of his mind. They spotted each other carefully as they made their way down, progressing with the confidence of practice combined with the fearlessness of youth.

At the bottom of the cliff, they stood on a bluff of granite that had sheared off the cliff in a single slab, marked by the hopscotch channels of crystal faultlines. Tom noted with unease that there was no sign of the piece of grey fabric they'd seen fluttering in the wind.

There was, however, the mouth of a cave, with a dim flicker of a light discernable at its very end.

Tom motioned to the others to be quiet, then whispered, "it's spies. German spies. It must be."

Amy whispered back, "we should go tell the adults."

Dennis hissed, "they'd never believe us."

Tom mused, "not without proof..." Amy and Dennis looked at him with horrified expressions.

"No."

"There's no other way," said Tom. "I'll do it, you guys hang back-"

A cold, gravely voice rang out behind them, "and do what?"  
The three children span around. Silohuetted by moonlight, a grey figure stood out against the blue waves.

"You've strayed far from home, children. I wonder how you managed it..."

They stared at him open-mouthed.

Dennis shouted, "We're not scared of you, you bloody German!"

"A German? Oh, of course. I wonder? I wonder if, no - far too unlikely." The grey figure fussed around with his robes, and Tom could see the crescent of a smile in the cowl of his hood. He gripped something in his pocket, the handle of a pistol?

Tom didn't wait to find out. Grasping a rock from the ground, he leapt forwards. There was a flash of light, and he fell to the ground. His last feeling, before unconsciousness, was immense surprise. He'd always thought dying would be painful.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::

Tom woke up to the sound of waves, as if he had put his ear to a conch. He yawned, and stretched, thinking about that strange dreams he had last night. He tried to roll over, but something cold and hard was caught on his wrist. He tugged at it, blinking his eyes open. As though somebody had thrown a bucket of icy water over him, he jolted awake.

Last night wasn't a dream.

His arm was held by a steel manacle, that led to a peg in a rough stone wall, and he lay in a hospital-style bed, swaddled in rough white sheets.

Tom forced his breathing into a steady, calm rhythm, then sat up to take stock of his surroundings. He was in what looked like a sea-cave, bounded on two sides by rough stone walls, and on the others by slightly-perspiring granite. A single incandescent bulb hung from a strand of cable pinned to the ceiling. There was one door, although it had neither key nor handle, and a small barred window set above it that let in a shaft of grey, cloud-smothered sunglight.

He was truly in the shit. He yanked the manacle, not expecting it to help. It didn't.

On the upside, Tom thought, I am still alive. Imprisoned by not-Germans with medieval ideas about prison restraints and uncertain intentions, but still alive.

An hour passed, then another. The fear dulled to a background noise of anxiety, worries about his friends coming to the fore, then becoming hackneyed with repitition. He found small ways to occupy himself, trying to float the dust-motes that hung in the shaft of light with his mind. Sometimes, they seemed to go the way he wanted them to, sometimes they didn't.

The door swung open, and he was confronted by a grey-cloaked man, younger, with bright blue eyes and a friendly face. Tom had a brief rush of hope. Maybe this one was a the 'responsible adult' type, the kind that would come swooping down, and sort everything out. The kind that would protect the children from Mrs Cole when she was drunk, even if it was only for the few minutes it took from their schedules before they flitted off to whatever important business such kind people attended to.

He didn't hold the hope in too high a regard.

"Good morning, young man, how are you feeling? " The corners of the man's mouth twitched as he spoke, as if he found something amusing in the situation but was too polite to point it out.

"Fine, sir. What, er, what do you want with me?"

"Oh, nothing sinister, nothing at all sinister. I must apologise for all this" he gestured with long-fingered hands to the manacle, "security, but it really can't be helped. Oh, forgive me, it must have slipped my mind - I haven't asked your name, or given you mine. Terrible manners, introductions must come at the start, or the story will turn into an awful mess, eh?"

"The story, sir?"

The man's smile slipped a little, and he said, "What is your name?"

"Tom Riddle, sir."

"And I am Tiberius, my dear boy. I oversee the welfare of the guests at our little sea-side facillity. Any questions you have, any concerns, you come straight to me." His smile was back.

"What is the facility for, sir?"

"It's for the war-effort, my boy. You see, my colleague believes you and your friends, at least one of them, are quite something. Something special. Now, we have made arrangements to put you through some tests - nothing onerous, I promise - to find out just how special you are!" He paused, pushing his glasses up his nose. "And, before you know it, we'll have you back to Mrs Cole."

"War effort? So you're not Germans?"

"No, nothing of the sort!"

"What do you mean by 'special, sir?"

"Oh, this and that. Have you ever noticed anything strange happening around you?"

"Yes, sometimes, sir."

"Well, I represent an organization that finds and helps special people like you. Now, if you'll consent, I would like to do a few quick tests." The man's tone suggested that it was not a good idea to refuse.

One of the first lessons that Tom had learned was that if he was to be forced to do something, it was better to pretend he wanted to do it of his own will to whoever was doing the forcing. That way, they would be less likely to be cruel about it, and less likely to close of avenues for escape. Most of the time.

The man smiled, and withdrew a long wooden stick from his sleeve.

"What's that sir?"

"It's a wand, my boy. Now, try to keep looking right at my eyes - you'll see a bright light, and a tickling sensation. Try to keep your mind relaxed an open, I promise you it won't hurt a bit."

The man muttered legimens, and suddenly Tom felt a piercing sensation, as if somebody had driven a spike into his forehead. Then, just as suddenly, he felt intensely relaxed, calm - as if he was sitting in front of a stove with a cup of hot chocolate.

He was in a room, full of books, a very pleasant room - with shelves reaching up on every side. He felt that this room was his mind. There was somebody just behind him, outside of his field of vision. A nice, comfortable presence, and in any case, he was too relaxed to turn around. He could hear by the rustle of turning pages that they were looking at the books, reading very fast, then throwing them to the floor. He felt a rip as a page tore.

He didn't like that his mysterious visitor was being so careless with his books. Those were his memories, and he would like it if his guest took care of them. He opened his mouth to say so, but nothing seemed to come out. He started to try and turn around, but he found he was quite unable to muster the will.

The intruder had moved on to the shelves directly to his right - still just outside of the field of his vision. He saw a book thrown to the floor. That really must stop, Tom thought. He summoned all his will power, and turned just a little to the right. He caught sight of a single, black leathery claw, snatching a book before it flitted out of sight.

Tom felt a runnel of sweat drop down into the small of his back. He tried moving his head again, but found he didn't know quite how - like the movement itself was at the tip of his tongue - forgotten or hidden.

That wasn't good. Unacceptable, even. It was strange to find something unnacceptable when he felt so relaxed, but now he thought of it, he shouldn't feel relaxed. His head was hurting like somebody was driving a pillar-drill through it. And there was an unknown presence, just behind him, throwing his memories around.

He threw all his strength into turning his head - his hands shook, and sweat gathered on his brow, but his head didn't move an inch.

Time for a new tactic. He relaxed every muscle in his body, and slumped out of the chair. The floor came rushing towards him, and he realized that it was hard, black stone.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This soon became routine. He would wake, with the crusted remains of a nose-bleed, fitted with a rubber bib in his bed-pan. He would exchange pleasantries with his kind-eyed captor, while wishing the man's death in his head, then the man would rifle through his memories, if the black-clawed creature really was the kind-eyed man's 'soul', as it were.

The sessions would end, invariably, with unconsciousness.

In-between the sessions, what he assumed were technicians came and took blood samples, bits of skin, and pointed wands at him and muttered strange, nonsense words. He used the toilet in the corner of the room, stared at the cieling, stared at the little window above the door, and tried to organize his hazy and scattered thoughts into something resembling resistance.

Days would pass by in a blur - and he would stare into space, feeling as if somebody had packed cotton wool inside his head.

His thoughts seemed disjointed, as if he was missing the parts that could allow him to move from one to another - or even, unsure why one should follow on from another. He would try and compose little accounts of what had happened, in one day or another - but he always got stuck on the 'and then' and the 'afters'. Where, exactly, he would worry, did the 'and then' happen? All he could remember were little instances, but he couldn't think of anything in those instances that could give him a sense of how to link them together.. How to put one 'before' and one 'after'. 'The man pointed his wand and then blood came out of his nose', he thought, maybe. Or maybe blood came out of his nose for another reason. Or maybe the passage of time passed in the opposite direction: 'blood came out of his nose, then the man pointed his wand'. He was sure that had happened, too. Or maybe it was a matter of simple dogma, like Mrs Cole's amens. 'The man pointed his wand and blood should come out of his nose, because that's God's divine plan'.

He tried that for some time, considering it a matter of simple faith that one thing should always follow on from another. He should scratch at his arms, then the red lines should appear. And then because God wills it. But what about the and then sometimes? And then if God wills it? That was no good at all. Really, anything could happen. All of the little instances and happenings that he was collecting in his brain could be linked up in any which way. He was lying in bed with a manacle on his wrist, then he was climbing on a roof, then he was murdering his captor, then he was feeling pain, then he had forgotten his name.

He had never been a big believer, in any case.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::

Through the haze, came two voices, and the sound of waves.

"Have you got the turner ready?"

"Yessir, won't be sorry to see the last of this one" - the voice grew a hand, then gestured to a long-haired miniature that Tom felt great fondness for.

"Blanks are always difficult, but the data... And the publications - they've asked me to write a book out of this! Publisher's advance! I've written more peer-reviewed articles in the last three months than the last two years combined!"

"You're the accademic. I'm just the guy who gets bitten when this little abomination is in one of her rages."

"Well, yes - bring them here, will you?" Tom felt a rough shove, and stumbled forward. It felt like rock, under his feet, and he could see a great blue rolling band. The sea? The man continued, "and how are you as an obliviator? I've had enough of this one knocking me around every time I enter his mind - he's got some serious chops, for his age."

"You get knocked around by a kid who hasn't even got his letter?" The man shoved Tom again.

"Try it, you'll see. Last time, he trapped me in an infinite substance regression - turtles all the way down. I was in there for an hour before I realized that they were in the shape of a gordian knot."

"I won't pretend I know what any of that means,"

"Well, if you start pissing yourself, or foaming at the mouth, I'll pull you out."

A little fly entered his web.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tom felt the sound of someone vomiting.

"I got the memories." Half-true.

"Are you sure there are no copies?" Tom's mind flashed with playful sunshine, and his cheeks tried to stretch his lips. He quelled them.

"Yes, yes." Lie.

"See what I mean about the boy?"

The other man started vomiting again.

He felt the thin links of a chain being draped around his neck, as he huddled close by two others he felt very comfortable with. A clock-dial spun, and he felt the sun turn to night, and the warm wind to cold gale.

A grey-cloaked figure confronted them, on a granite shore.

"Well, let's get you three little veg up that cliff", the figure said, and Tom was suddenly flying.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::

"Where were you?" Mrs Cole screamed, and the three children stood staring blankly.

Tom stepped forward. "It was my fault, Mrs, I convinced them to sneak out with me."

A string of drool coursed its way down Dennis' chin.

She started screaming, and Tom relaxed. He could understand what she was saying, while keeping all his muscles under control, if he concentrated terribly hard. Screaming was supposed to be uninteligible. Just sounds. Angry sounds. His part was done - he would take the punishment for the other two. The specifics were unimportant.

He dimly felt Mrs Cole hit him. He sensed Amy tensing beside him, ready to spring, so turned and gave her a look. She seemed to understand. He felt Mrs Cole hit him again.

"Two days!" she screamed, and Tom noted this as important - worthy of future attention. Two days was, he thought, a rather short time, all considered.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Three months passed, and the trio, now dubbed the 'loony three' by the other orphans, gradually recovered. They leaned on each other, more than ever before. Dennis had what appeared to be barely-healed surgical scars under his hair-line at the back of his neck. Amy had a broken knuckle, and one less tooth.

Out of the three, Dennis seemed the worst affected. He had a slight drool, and a single drop of snot perpetually fixed on the tip of his nose. Worse, he had a blank stare. While Amy seemed to have become more prone to her temper, Dennis seemed to have no temper at all.

"What did they do to you?" Tom asked.  
"What did who do to me?" replied Dennis, blandly mulching the food he was shoveling into his mouth.  
"Them. The people at the bottom of the cliff."  
"Who? There wasn't anything at the bottom of the cliff. Is this one of your jokes?" Dennis had the slightest shadow of a frown.  
"He doesn't remember," interjected Amy.  
"Remember what?" said Dennis. Tom got the distinct feeling that Dennis wasn't really curious, he was simply asking for politeness' sake.

Tom sighed.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a joke."

Amy looked fit to explode, but turned it on her bread-and-butter pudding, stabbing the small triangular slices with her spoon.


	5. Chapter 5: A man in a plum suit

"Shouldn't we be doing something?" Amy asked, one particularly bleak english summer day.  
"What can we do? It's pretty clear that whoever those people were, we don't exactly pose any kind of threat to them." Tom had been thinking on this subject fairly regularly.  
"Until we are."  
"Yes, until we are."  
Tom sat down, leaning against one of the pebble-dash walls of tthe orphanage. Orphan children truly had very few means to strike out against adults, which was, presumably, why their lot was so poor. Against adults with mysterious and supernatural powers? Orphan children really had no chance at all.

Granted, Tom thought, if he put his mind to it, he could neutralize somebody like Mrs Cole. He had considered it once - he knew where the rat poison was kept. Nobody would suspect him. But, on balance, he had decided that chances were she'd be replaced by somebody worse. Or somebody better who would become worse. It was a theory of his that the kinder an adult began, the more sadistic they would become, as their sense of justice and sympathy rubbed rawly against the pragmatics of running an orphanage.

In many ways, it was an odd sort of 'back to normal'. Nobody bothered Dennis anymore, the other orphans were scared of him. Frankly, Tom wondered whether it would be possible to bother Dennis in any case. He sat at breakfast, eating indiscriminately, spoonfulls of lard, handfuls of bread. He slept without sound, woke at the bell, and to Mrs' Cole's delight, did exactly as he was told by anyone, to the letter.

Amy, on the other hand, had fought three older boys, over little slights each time. She beat them handilly, too. While smaller, and weaker, she was far more vicious and totaly ruthless. One of the boys lost vision in his eye. Luckilly, Tom managed to convince them into pretending it was a cricket accident. They didn't want it to be common knowledge that they'd been beaten up by a girl half their size.

Mrs Cole, irritated beyond belief by the screaming nightmares that Amy and Tom seemed to have in common, had assigned each of them one of the coveted individual rooms, 'so they wouldn't disturb the others with their devilish bawling.' Tom fouud this extraordinary - not counting the time he spent imprisoned, could count the days he'd spent inside, on his own, on the fingers of one hannd. He found it terribly unsettling to sleep without the sussurus of snores that had sent him to sleep for as long as he could remember.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

One day - late in what had seemed the most bleary summer of Tom's young life, there came a knock at the dormitory door.

"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton - sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you - well, I'll let him do it." said Mrs Cole. Drunk, but not too drunk.

The man walked in. He was dressed entirely in a suit of plum velvet. Tom couldn't shake the impression that he had a slight resemblance to the man with the kind eyes, at the bottom of the cliff.

"How do you do, Tom?" Tom's suspicions deepened. The man shared the captor's mannerisms, and his accent. And, there! The light brushing against his mind!

He was in real danger. He managed to misdirect the man's probe into some fairly mundane memories, but this one was very good. He wouldn't be able to hide his memories under prolonged inspection.

The man held out his hand. He'd better take it, Tom thought. He was sweating, slightly, in the small of his back. He would have to walk a knife-edge to avoid raising any suspicion that he had remembered what they had done to him.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

Tom had a flash of inspiration.

"Professor?" repeated Tom. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she come in to have a look at me?"

"No, no," said the man, smiling. The ruse was working. Of course, if the man did find out he remembered, he probably would end up in an asylum. Or worse. Best to keep 'Proffessor' on the subject.

"I don't believe you," said Tom. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she?" He loaded his next words with pure, childish petulance: "Tell me the truth!"

"Who are you?" I know who you are, thought Tom.

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come."

An odd tack to take, Tom thought. Obviously his time as an outpatient was over.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it?" Last ditch dramatics were in order, after all. Tom leapt from the bed which he had been sitting on. "Professor, yes of course - well, I'm not going, see?" Tom had no real hope that he would be so lucky as to live up to his defiance, but hell, it put some juice in his charade. "That old cat's the one who should be in the Asylum" - maybe a few months of confinement would wrest Mrs. Cole from the bottle, Tom thought. "I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop and you can ask them, they'll tell you!" He was playing a dangerous game here, but he felt that if he implied he thought he was responsible for Amy and Dennis' changed behaviour - a matter Mrs. Cole wouldn't have ommitted to mention - the man would be less likely to interogate them.

"I am not from the asylum," yes, I know, thought Tom. You're far worse. "I am a teacher, and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts." I know all about 'Hogwarts', thought Tom.

"Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you." Yeah, right, thought Tom.

"I'd like to see them try," said Tom, defiantly. He didn't have much hope that he could influence the matter one way or another, but the defiant words staved off the creeping terror he could feel in his stomach.

"Hogwarts," the man went on, "is a school for people with special abilities-"  
Don't rise to it, Tom thought. "I'm not mad!"  
"I know that you are not mad." Damn. "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Of magic people who want to learn to torture kids, right.

In his best, 'I've never heard of that nor considered the possibility' voice, Tom whispered "Magic?"

"That's right." said the man. "You're a wizard, Tom."

At this point, Tom realized this conversation was proceeding upon lines entirely different to what he had expected. Rather than a set of questiosn designed to work out whether or not he knew of magic - he had got this…this bizzare invitation to a blatantly ficticious magic school. It came to his mind that, having not seen the man perform any magic, he could simply be a crank that his over-active mmind had labeled as a danger.

"Professor, could you show me-?"

In any case, it would add to the charade to ask for a demonstration. If the man thought Tom was truly totally clueless, it gave Tom a slight advantage. Or at least, less of a gigantic disadvantage than a lone orphan would normally face against a grown member of a secretive organization wielding supernatural powers.

The man promptly set his wardrobe on fire, and for the first time in the conversation, Tom lost his cool. His one memento of his mother was in there. He jumped to his feet with a shout of shock, but managed to catch himself in time.

The flames vanished. Just an illusion, thank God.

"I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe," said the man.

And, sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. Probably the teeth of whatever monster he's summoned into my cabinet, Tom thought glumly.

"Open the door." commanded the man. Tom thought for a moment about jumping out of the window instead, but decided against it.

He threw open the wardrobe, and relaxed. It was empty, except his box of hostages - the little items he took from other orphans, was rattling.

"Take it out," said the man. Tom couldn't understand why the man was interested in the items, but then - thinking about it, he didn't understand much about the way this conversation had gone. He had expected a brief set of diagnostic questions, then either to be left alone, or abducted.

He took down the quaking box.

"Is there anything in that box you ought not to have?" asked the man. Stranger and stranger, thought Tom.

"Yes, I suppose so, sir." said Tom, feeling for all the world like he was being played, but entirely unsure of which game.

"Open it."

Tom opened the box and tipped its contents on the bed.

"You will return them to their owners with your appologies," said the man, "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Theiving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

A lecture on virtue. Tom suddenly wondered whether this was an extraordinarilly lucid dream.

"Yes, sir." Tom said.

The man launched into an extended and oddly pompous little speech about the proper use of magic, which detailed the various institutions that would take umbrage at lawbreakers.

The man finished with giving Tom a leather money pouch, saying "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but-"

Tom was so wrongfooted by the strange turn the conversation had taken that he blurted out: "Where do youu buy spellbooks?"

"In Diagon Alley," said the man, "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything-"

"How do youu get to this Diagon Alley- sir?"

The man handed him an envelope, and told him the directions to a pub called 'the Leaky Cauldron' of all things. Tom was beggining to believe he had a leaky cauldron himself.

"You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you -non-magical people, that is - will not. Ask for Tom the barman - easy enough to remember, as he shares your name-"

Magical boy, eh? Well, Tom would play along with this ruse, and try and get an idea of what the man was after.

"You dislike the name 'Tom'?" the man asked.

Why would he dislike his own name? Never one to pass up an opportunity to make himself look weaker or less intelligent in front of an insurmountable enemy, Tom latched onto the idea.

"There are lots of Toms." and then, "was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me." Vain and insecure. A good combination to put an enemy at ease.

"I'm afraid I don't know," said the man.

"So - when I've got all the stuff - when do I come to Hogwarts?" As if you're not going to bag me a soon as I put a single foot in this 'Leaky Cauldron'.

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said the man. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Tom decided on a test. He would tell the man something which, if he was what Tom thought he was, he would already know. If the man looked surprised...

"I can talk to snakes. Is that normal for a wizard?"

The man appeared surprised.

"It is unusual... But not unheard of." His eyes moved curiously over Tom's face.

"Anyway, I must be going."

What? Thought Tom.

He shook the man's hand, then sat down on his bed. What had just happened, he was unsure.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"It's a ruse." said Amy.

"Yes, but why? And to what end? Why didn't he just grab me? Why didn't he just grab you? Why didn't he talk to you?" argued Tom.

"I don't know, but he's one of them. You'd be mad to go to that place, and I won't come with you."

"Those… men said they were at war. I don't believe for a minute he meant at war with the Germans. Maybe this man is from the other side?"

"Tom, listen to yourself. Does anything that good ever happen?"

"I am Tom the luck."

"Tom the loon, these days."

Dennis stared blankly into space.

"Look, I can't let this go. Worst case scenario, it is them, and I go to the Leaky Cauldron only to get grabbed. But, in that scenario, they can just grab me anyway. We were away for two days, according to Mrs. Cole. I definitely counted at least thirty before I lost track. If they can turn back time, there's no way they can't abduct kids from an orphanage."

"And best case scenario? Best case scenario you're one of them."

"You don't mean that."

"You're right." Amy looked abashed. "I'm sorry. It's just… say this is a school for magic children, then sure, no doubt you're a magic child if anyone is. You'll come back with one of those - one of those.. wands, but you won't be like us. You'll be like..."

"I'll never be like them. I promise."

Tom tried not to look hurt, but he felt it. Amy was right, he was like the men at the bottom of the cliff. He could feel it - the difference between him and them was one of scale, not of kind. He was Tom the luck, and his knacks were magic.

"And maybe, maybe I'll find a way to get back at them. A way to bring Dennis back to normal."

"I am normal," said Dennis, in his flat, monotone voice.

"Yes, you are." said Amy, stroking the side of Dennis' face. The boy didn't react.

"I'll go to this 'Leaky Cauldron', check it out. It can't hurt to have more information."

"I'm coming with you."

"I thought you said you wouldn't come?"

"Nonsense. I'm coming," said Amy, and it was final.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tom didn't feel at all comfortable with the idea of Amy coming, but as the days came closer to the date they'd set to visit the Leaky Cauldron, he began to accept that, short of physically disabling her, no ruse was sufficient to dissuade her.

They walked, through empty streets, and through rows of houses with bombed-out windows. There weren't many children in London these days - Mrs Cole had talked about relocating the children in the orphanage to the countryside, then about building a proper bombshelter. Nothing had come of either plan, beyond the criss-crossing of tape that webbed the windows, and the gas-mask practice, where the orphans all made silly squeaking noises at eachother by blowing through the rubber seals.

London was as grey and grimy as ever, and the Leaky Cauldrno was conspicuous by being the only building for two whole streets bereft of shrapnell scars.

"Look." Tom said, pointing. The people on the pavement didn't seem to notice - dad's army-men, dressed up in patched fatigues, women scuttling from doorway to doorway, wearing hand-dyed dresses.

"Weird. I completely missed that until you pointed it out."

"The man said non-magical people couldn't see it."

"You scared?"

"Yes," said Tom.

"Scaredy-cat."

"Let's go inside. I'll go first - if they grab me, you run, OK?"

"OK."

The pub had the same scattered clumps of old men looking blearilly into the middle distance, smoke stains and beer-mottled countertops, of any London pub - granted, less soldiers in their bright uniforms, more beards and, strange -medieval looking - clothes, but more or less, the atmosphere of an ordinary pub down to a tee. The same robes as the men who had abducted them wore, in all sorts of colours.

But, casting his eyes around the pub, Tom couldn't see Tiberius anywhere. So far so good. He walked back to the door, and beckoned to Amy.

Together, they went up to the bar, to look for Tom, the bar-man.

Amy nudged him, and pointed to a man who was absentmindedly charming brightly coloured lights to orbit the tip of his wand - deeply immersed in a big, leather-bound book. Tom tried not to stare.

"First time in the Cauldron, then?" Said one of the patrons at the bar. He had blackened teeth, and smelled like shit.

"Yes sir! We're looking for Tom, the landlord, sir."

The man frowned. "Where are your parents, then?"

"Dead, sir."

The man frowned again. "How did you get here?"

"Walked, sir."

"Walked, like a muggle?" The man guffawed and slapped Tom on the back. "Wait, your parents weren't muggles, were they?" His eyes narrowed.

"I don't know, sir, I never met them."

"Hmm," said the man, as if that made Tom somehow highly worthy of suspicion.

Tom, a youngish, kind-faced man chose this moment to appear.

"Hello, young sir, what'll you be having?"

"Firewhisky, no doubt!" laughed the man with black teeth.

"That's enough of that, Marvolo."

That's my middle name, thought Tom.

"I'll tell you what's enough, you jumped up prick!" the man lent across the bar, threateningly, only to find himself face-to-face with the end of Tom's wand.

"You'll be leaving now, before I have to call the aurors."

The man grumbled, and wandered out into the street, disapearing with a loud crack. Tom felt that this particular conversation had happened a great many times.

"Now, where were we?" the barkeep smiled.

"Professor Dumbledore sent me, sir. He said you'd be able to tell me how to get into Diagon alley, and where to go to get my school-things."

Amy was still looking with naked suspicion at the customers of the pub.

"Well, I can point you the right way. Come with me," he beckoned to the two children, who stepped around the bar, then out into a tiny court-yard, with a few bins, and a small unburied Anderson shelter, with odd rune-like markings painted onto its corrugated surface. Tom suspected it strengthened it against bombs - although, he figured, it wouuld have to be strengthened rather a lot, given the flimsyness of the government-issued poor-man's bunker when unburied.

The man drew out his wand, and tapped on a series of bricks. Tom felt Amy tense beside him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he would see Tiberius standing right before him, framed by the rapidly widening hole in the bricks.

"For books, you'll want Flourish and Blotts. For wands, you'll want Olivanders, and for-" as he pattered along, Tom took looked with awe at the bustling crowd ahead of him.

It was the world of wizards, it was extraordinary, and it was his.


	6. Chapter 6: Diagonally

Diagon alley was like nothing Tom had ever seen. It was a riot of bright colours, of flashing and moving signs, of bangs and whistles, and the bustle of a crowd that looked as richly dressed as they seemed unconcerned about the troubles of the world. Not a single speck of bomb-damage on the bright marble facades, and the street was clean and paved with shining cobbles, worn clean by passing boots.

It was just so - vibrant. So far in character from the bleak, sanitary rooms that Tom had been confined to, both in the orphanage, and his brief brush with magic of the nastier kind.

He and Amy wandered around, examining contraptions that whizzed and spinned, entering shops that contained the bizzare and the extraordinary. Going into Flourish and Blotts, an entire shelf of books took flight, and an exhausted looking shop assistant pulled his wand from his robes and began attempting to stun them, one by one, muttering darkly.

As one swooped past Amy, a stray page tapped the side of her head, and it immediately fell to the floor. It was titled the "Ornithopter book of Ornithology". The shopkeeper looked at her strangely, then shrugged, and put the inert book back on the shelf.

As they progressed around the Alley, they began to notice that Amy had this effect on all of the enchanted items they encountered. The moment she touched it, even with the lightest brush, it fell silent.

"I'm a blank," she shrugged.

"A what?" Tom asked, curious.

"A blank. I overheard one of the guards talking about it, when they were holding us prisoner."

"What's a blank?"

"I don't know, but I think it's something about magic not working right on me."

Tom thought that was pretty neat, and said so. Then, having never had any money before, he bought two large ice-creams from Fortescue's Ice-cream parlour, and they sat, happilly licking the delicacy - which neither of them had ever tasted,  
watching the crowd bustle by.

He saw a man conjure butterflies for his daughter, who chased them, laughing. A group of turbaned wizards wandered by, arguing in a language Tom thought might be arabic, gesticulating furiously.

It was a strange place, Diagon alley.

The strangest place of all, however, was Olivander's wand shop. It was dark, but clean, and they slipped in quietly. A little bell rung, as the door closed, and who Tom could only assume to be Olivander, came sidling out of a back room.

He did a double-take when he saw Amy.

"What, I must ask, is that…thing doing in my shop?" he said, pointing.

"She's my friend," said Tom, taken aback.  
Olivander paused, evidently processing this information. A dark look had come over Amy's eyes.

He leaned close in to Tom, and in an undertone, as if Amy wasn't there, said, "are you aware, young man, of what she is?"

"She's my friend."

"Well, friend or not - sit there, and don't -whatever you do- don't touch anything!"  
Amy, looking mutinous, did as she was told.

The man then rounded on Tom, and gripped his chin with one long-fingered hand. "Hmmm, curious," he said.

"What's curious, sir?"

"Great promise, there, I can see that very clearly," he hummed, and started grabbing boxes from the shelves.

"-but you won't make anything of yourself if you insist on hanging on to the things of your childhood." Tom suspected by 'things' the man meant Amy.

After a few minutes of trying out various wands, he settled on a Yew and Phoenix-feather wand. The wand felt marvelous, for all the man was clearly some kind of racial supremacist. Tom had learned that Germans were racial supremacists, but he knew english people could be too. The boys in the orphanage were quite horrible to the one Welsh boy in the dormitory, calling him 'sheep-fucker', even though half of them probably didn't know what 'fuck' meant, and the boy -being an orphan- hadn't seen Wales since his ill-fated parents moved to London several years before.

Eyelop's Owl Emporium was oddly reminiscent of Trafalgar square, except with owls, instead of pigeons.

One of the owls swooped down to alight on Tom's shoulder, and peered at him with uncanny intelligence - he dimly remembered hearing something about owls being rather solitary creatures, and nothing could be further from their situation here. They perched in ranks, preening each-other, sitting with good cheer and camraderie side-by-side.

Amy reached out to pet it, and Tom realized too late what was going to happen. The moment her hand touched the preening owl's neck, the creature went berserk, letting out a demoniacal shriek, and clawing Tom in its haste to get away. It flew up towards the exit window, attacking two other owls on its way out, shrieking all the way. Evidently blinded by the sunlight, it collided with a girder, knocking itself senseless before tumbling in a heap of feathers to the floor..

Tom and Amy cringed. The rough hands of the shopkeeper grabbed them both by their collars.

"Out", said the burly man, and threw them unceremoniouusly onto the street.

On the way back to the Leaky Cauldron, they came across a stall, selling various knick-nacks, and browsed the wares.

"What we need is a way to communicate when I'm at school - I get the feeling Hogwarts doesn't have an ordinary post-box."

"And owls aren't going to work," said Amy, looking downcast.

"Might I interrupt, young sirs?" said the vendor, with a faintly cockney accent, something like Amy and Tom's own. "I've got just the thing. See this?" He pulled out a pair of matching wax tablets, and a steel stylus. "You draw on one, and, see? the same mark goes on the other! Protean charm, and a bargain at ten sickles!"

"Won't the charm break it if I touch it?" said Amy, mostly to Tom.

"Why would that happen, young miss? This is top-quality enchantment, it'll last for five years if it lasts a day."

"Magical things break when I touch them," said Amy, staring at the man flatly.

"A blank? Extraordinary!" the man hummed to himself, "very pleased to meet you!" he exclaimed, then stepped out from behind the stall to shake Amy's hand vigorously.

Amy looked rather taken aback. "You are?"

"Extraordinary honour, young miss."

"The others didn't seem to be happy to see me at all, what makes you different?" said Amy, suspiciously.

"Well, how shall I put it - ahm, Diagon alley being, a rather, ahm, establishment place tends also to be rather full of reactionary, pigheaded bigots, young miss. The kind of wizards who aren't at all keen to see a muggle that can defend herself. Us of a rather more enlightened sentiment tend to feel the opposite." The man's ennunciation was quite strange, switching between cockney and oxford, but his smile seemed honest enough.

"All the same, I would keep your particular talent to yourself, since -sadly- most wizards won't take all that kindly - no, not at all."

"Anyway" he continued, "I think I may have a solution to your problem, and at a bargain! Two protean-charmed wax tablets, and a pair of ordinary gloves."

Tom bought the tablets, and thanked the man, before they set off down the street.

"This place isn't right for me," said Amy.

"What? Don't be upset because of a few pig-headed reactionaries," replied Tom, very happy with the new vocabulary.

"It's not. They hate 'muggles', and I'm a muggle. I'm a muggle who can break magic just by touching it. A super-muggle."

"That's kind've magical in itself."

"It's not."

Amy refused to be coaxed out of the bad mood Olivander had sent her into for the rest of the day, and Tom saw her point.

Tom bought a newspaper, mainly for the moving pictures, which he thought might cheer Amy up. The headline read "Grindewald: a rising threat?" over a picture of a tawny-haired, very handsome wizard. He handed it to Amy, and the image stopped moving.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;:::

The orphanage seemed strange in comparison, like a world under grey film. Tom immediately set to work on his schoolbooks. He had always been starved for books, there only being four in the Orphanage children's library - well thumbed to the point of disintegration, and the Bible, which Tom had read twice, which he enjoyed, even if he had little faith in its moral effect or authority.

They were like no books he'd ever read. While the books in the orphanage preceeded from one page to another in dull, uniform steps, reading his schoolbooks felt like grasping in darkness the shape of something massive and strange, and learning its pattern by touch.

Strangest of all was the two books not on the list: 'The Simplified Outline and Mirror of History', and 'The Cloud of Unknowing' which he had bought mostly by chance - rather taken by the elegant little grey canvas-bound hardbacks, and their flamboyant titles. Opening up the former, rather than its contents proceeding in orderly procession, he would tap his wand on one of the numerous chapter headings - 'Practical thinking', 'Schelling's blindspot', or 'Zur Farbenlehre in Brief', and the little book would flick to small and rather opaque sets of aphorisms.

The Cloud of Unknowing, on the other hand, started off in extremely readable and emminently sensible discussions (which were, unfortunately, different each time it was opened), then progressively digressed until all Tom's bearings were totally lost.

Amy had a mixed reaction - finding books centered aroud spellwork and theory impenetrable, saying they gave her a headache.

All the same, she devoured Armando Dippet's *Magic through the Ages*- with a vindictive kind of relish.

"He's the Headmaster", Tom said.

"Well, he's no poet," replied Amy, sagely.

Tom grunted assent. He had found the book odd in its ommissions - although, not having recieved much formal schooling in 'muggle' history, he didn't have much of a framework to compare it against. He recalled his last history lesson, where the history teacher had pointed to a large map of the world and exclaimed: "Pink! Pink! Pink!" while pointing to various (undoubtedly pink) territories. The 'pink', it turned out, was the extent of the British empire, and, according to the teacher, this was what all the fighting was for. This was the culmination of around three years of a history programme that osciliated between trying to impress upon the children the importance of long-dead kings, and then, the importance of an empire that, for all its vastness and strength, could neither defend nor adequately feed its people, in peacetime or war.

In any case, Dippet's history seemed simmilarly unlikely - including a cast of oddly two-dimensional heroes and villians, with the heroes invariably being upstanding british Wizards, and the villians ranging from uppitty witches to revolting Goblins.

He turned to the "The Simplified Mirror and Outline of History", and tapped his wand on the heading that read 'On the grand sweeps'.

"Only stories have plots."

Tom smiled, and closed the book.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The weeks sped by, and before Tom was throuugh half his books, he was due to take the train to school.

He was, prediictably, extremely nervous. He couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that the entire series of events that had led him to even consider associating with wizards - indeed, to begin to consider himself one - was one seriously complex delusion generated from his indubitably cracked brain.

And, once he managed to assure himself that this was, if not impossible, at least unlikely, he began to worry in turn about the reality of living -totally immersed- in the culture that would happily abduct three children and perform magical experiments upon them - (even if, as Tom had gathered from reading the Daily Prophet, this practice was illegal).

Most interesting was the magical world's reaction to the Blitz. The wizards were evidently taken by surprise by the start of the war, and were both shocked and horrified by the first wizard deaths from the German bombing campaign. What had been a matter for passing curiousity suddenly became a matter of national outrage, as wizards realized that not only were they vulnerable to muggle weapons, but (to add insult to injury) they weren't even the intended targets of these weapons. Wizards seemed to feel that if, in the very unlikely event a muggle should do one harm, it should at least be after a good twenty years or so of plotting and preparation on the part of the muggle. Being a wizard in the Blitz, on the other hand, felt rather like being a hapless muggle bystander caught between two dueling masters - a turnabout the wizards did not enjoy at all.

While various spells were reasonably effective against direct bombardment (wizards used the ancient Bombardum Taraxacum ward, reputedly invented by a Roman wizard who was irritated by having to leave the city every time a barbarian horde besieged it, that turned falling missiles into dandelion chaff on impact) they found having to listen out and hide indoors when they heard muggle sirens intolerable.

In the second issue he had recieved since his subscription, he had spotted Tiberius in a photograph accompanying an article about the new 'DMLE security committee', standing behind the minister for magic. Although the Tiberius in the photograph seemed to try and hide in the shadows whenever possible, it was undoubtably him.

Looking further for references to this comittee, Tom found it had been formed in response to the growing power of Gellert Grindewald, who the newspaper branded a 'hoary eyed radical, bent on destroying the hard-earned prosperity of Wizards the world over.'

"He's our man," said Amy, one day.

"Hmm?"

"If he's against the ministry - against those…monsters who did those things to us and Dennis, he's our man."

"What do you mean?"

"We should find him. Join him. Get our revenge."

Tom had to admit, he had developed a growing attraction for the man, perhaps fanned in reaction to the explosive rhetoric employed by the Prophet. He felt like he wasn't getting the whole story, so he leant towards the exact opposite conclusion to the one the articles expounded.

However, this was an area where Tom would far rather he looked before he leaped.

Amy accompanied him to the station - and they easilly spotted the ruse the wizards had employed to hide their platform 9 and 3/4 from the muggles - a doorway disguised as a wall, which admitted a near-constant stream of odd-looking ten-year-old children, ushered on by eclectically dressed parents, clucking excitedly.

Tom felt like the butterflies in his stomach had suddenly all grown horns and fangs.

"Go on, you ninny - you'll miss the train" said Amy, shoving him foreward. She didn't like goodbyes.

Tom hugged her goodbye, promising to write, then passed through the barrier, and onto the platform.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The platform was pademonium, flanked on one side by a fairly ordinary-looking, if rather clean locomotive, and on the other, by the curious victorian cast-ironwork of Kings Cross station, made rather more curious by the fact it was almost entirely free of bomb scars.

A startlingly blonde boy brushed past hi, appearing not to have seen him at all. Reeling, he was subsequently nearly knocked into the gap by a gaggle of ginger-haired boys, who appologized half-heartedly before hurrying on with whatever game they were playing.

Now or never, thought Tom, and stepped onto the train. He quickly found an empty carriage, and lifted his trunk up to the rack above the seats, pulling out a book for the journey.

Before he'd properly started, he was interrupted by a black-haired, rather handsome boy of his own age, who asked -in an oddly bored tone-:

"Is it alright if I sit here? The other carriages are stuffed."

Tom nodded assent, and the boy sat down, stretching himself out over an entire row of seaets, and resting his back to the window.

Moments later, another boy, auburn haired and pale-looking, entered the compartment.

"'Lo Rosier," said the black-haired boy.

"'Lo Black," said Rosier, then turned appologetically to Tom, "this is Alphard Black, I am Bertrand Rosier,"

"Al," said the black-haired boy, leaning forward and offering his hand.

"Tom Riddle," said Tom, shaking the proffered hand.

"Charmed," said Alphard, leaning back against the window.

"Riddle, Riddle, Riddle - I can't place your name, are your parents foreign?" asked Bernard.

"They're dead. I was raised in an orphanage."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said the boy, his face crumpling.

"It's OK, I never knew them, so I don't feel sad," Tom lied.

At that moment, the door burst open, and black-haired boy thrust his head into the compartment.

"Al, catch!" He threw a screaming, extremely unhappy looking cat into the comparment - which Al, with rather uncanny reflexes, managed to dodge. The boy, and his two companions, ran off laughing before a word could be said in reply.

"Orion", said Al, darkly. The cat was now perched hissing on Al's seat, while Al was sat on the floor.

"Where do you think he got the cat?" asked Bertrand, gesturing to the animal, which had ceased hissing, and was now lapping one paw luxuriantly.

Al looked like he was considering attempting to reclaim his seat, but was quelled by a rather nasty glare from the cat.

"Probably from some fifth-year with a penchant for torture," groaned Al.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, than a large, redheaded boy thrust his head into the door.

"You little bastards, you'll pay for this!" shouted the red-head.

"But - it wasn't us!" Bertrand stuttered.

The older boy grunted, punched Bertrand in the stomach, then grabbed his cat before going on his way.

"Try to breathe," said Tom, putting his head on Bertand's shoulder.

"Ivan goddamn Prewitt. Shitty gryfindor thug," Bertrand choked out.

"Continuing their house's tradition for bravery" spat Al.

They returned to fairly amiably chatting - apparently random outbreaks of violence were no more unusual in what Al and Bertrand called 'pureblood society' than in orphanages. Magical children, being rather more resilient than ordinary children, had correspondingly fewer qualms about envelope-pushing pranks and violent reprisals.

"-in any case, I think my family would disown me," said Al.

"And you're about as brave as a flobberworm," teased Bertrand.

This prompted a short fist-fight, of a kind utterly novel to Tom, given that niether participant seemed to be trying to hurt the other.

Flushed, they turned to him, and Bertrand asked: "So, what house do you think you'll end up in?"

"Honestly? I haven't given it much thought. They all sound fine," said Tom.

"Even Hufflepuff?" exclaimed Al, incredulously.

"You have to work pretty hard to get anything done, no matter how smart or cunning you are. And everybody learns the same curriculum."

"But you'll be surrounded by dunderheads for your entire time at Hogwarts!"

"Or anger-management cases like Prewitt, if you end up Gryfindor" said Al.

"Is Gryfindor bullying that bad?" asked Tom, worried.

"Well, they mostly target the other houses, but if somebody's a bit too 'dark' or un-Gryfindorish, they can give them a really hard time." Bertrand paused. "Dumbledore's pretty oblivious - he's hardly ever at school outside of lessons - so the older kids don't really have anybody reining them in."

"Dumbledore's the head of Gryfindor?"

"You know Dumbledore?"

"He came to the orphanage to give me my letter."

"What's he like? He's supposed to be very important at the ministry."

Al looked out of the window dismissively.

"He seemed nice enough. Fairly mild-mannered."

"My father says Dumbledore's at the heart of a lot of the new proposals that are being put into place to deal with these awful muggle booms," said Bertrand. "Apparently it was Dumbledore who found the wards that stop them from being too much of a nuisance."

"Bombs, Bertrand, bombs," said Alphard.

"What kind of proposals?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"All sorts. Monitoring, fail-safes, much more involvement, he told me, to make sure this sort of thing doesn't ever happen again," he said. "A guiding hand, he said."

Tom wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

Before long, they were winding through the blue peaks of scottish mountains, staring out of the window at a dark sky belied by darker heather, and slopes of grey scree.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"First years, first years over here!" came a thin, reedy voice.

Tom turned to see a palid, shabby looking man, hollering at the top of his hoarse voice,

"First years! First years!"

They were herded onto small boats which, with a swish of his wand, the pale man sent moving soundlessly across the dark water of a great lake.

Tom fancied he could see the outline of some levithian sea-creature, basking in the shallows, looking up at them with eyes the size of dinner-plates.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The first years ventured forward cautiously, huddling together like penguins in the arctic wind, as the noise and light of the Great Hall washed over them.

On a stool in front of them, was a single, tattered looking hat.

After a brief song of doggerel verse, the hat launched into calling names.

George, Avery! shouted the hat, and the frightened-looking boy was thrust forward by the pallid looking man. He put the hat on his head, where it sat, for several seconds, before shouting: SLYTHERIN!

The sorting proceeding in this fashion, with Al and Bertrand both -to their evident satisfaction- being sorted into slytherin. A very large, brutish boy named Rubeus Hagrid was sorted into Gryfindor, rather cementing the comments Al and Bertrand had made about bullies.

Suddenly, his own name rang out, and he in turn was shoved forward to pick up the hat. He put it on his head, and was immediately confronted with the familiar, and frighhtening feeling of mental invasion.

"Relax, kid, I'm not going to hurt you," said a warm voice, "oh my, this is not your first rodeo at all!"

Tom sat, thinking of nothing.

"Really, relax, and we'll have you sorted in a jiffy."

"You're in my head. I don't want you in my head."

"Hmmm. Not ravenclaw, I think. You're bright enough, but you don't value it over all else. Not gryfindor, either - you're certainly not the brave, foolish type."

"Get out of my head."

"Maybe you would work in gryfindor!"

"No."

"No? Not gryfindor then? How about Hufflepuff? You're certainly loyal enough, and you're hardworking."

"Fine, just get out of my head."

"No, I don't think that's the heart of it, either."

"What's the point of sorting us into houses anyway?"

"Frankly? I don't know. I've come over the years to believe it was some pretty hide-bound notions old Godric had about how society was supposed to work, which -of course- have come completely apart over the years. He had this idea that Gryfindors would be the warriors, Ravenclaws would be the scholars, Hufflepuffs the servants, and Slytherins the statesmen - with virtues to match. Of course, virtues -or the lack of them- really dictate very little about what we do in life…Ah, I'm rambling."

"So it doesn't matter which house you put me in?"

"I've spent my long life hearing tell of Gryfindors who run in battle, Ravenclaws who became drunken bores, Hufflepuffs who break their bonds, and slytherins who sacrifice themselves for others. Your situation matters, not your choices. You -I am sure- are a slytherin."

"Why?"

"You look before you leap. You don't believe in 'too dificult'. You've a healthy dose of self-preservation, and you want to turn the world upside-down. All worthy slytherin qualities."

He heard the voice scream 'SLYTHERIN', and took the hat shakilly off, to join his new house.


End file.
